


Threadbare

by GoddessofBirth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Confusion, Eichen | Echo House, Frenemies, Intimacy, M/M, post-season 4 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Argent does not have a secret, sordid past with Peter Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threadbare

Contrary to what the score of children he has seemingly collected in some kind of weird, three way adoption with Melissa McCall and the Sheriff might think, Chris Argent does not have a secret, sordid past with Peter Hale. No doomed, youthful romance that was cut off by Gerard or Talia (the spin on that depends strongly upon which teenager is speculating at the time). No angst ridden tale of hidden desires and blooming sexuality, all wrapped up in an ironic package of Hunter/Werewolf genetics.

The Peter Hale of fifteen, of seventeen, of twenty one, had never wanted Chris Argent. Grim faced Chris Argent, ever watchful, ever deadly, never smiling Chris Argent. Five years his senior and seen only every now and then when the Hales and the Argents crossed paths in polite words and choreographed gestures that pretended at peace but smelled of time bidden. 

And the Chris Argent of twenty, of twenty two, of twenty six had only noticed Peter Hale in passing, in the almost absent, but not quite, way he recorded all of his surroundings, carefully filed away every person he met, especially when he may have to kill them some day. Peter Hale who danced around the periphery of Talia’s circle, half hidden in her shadow. Peter Hale who was too smart for his own good, with a smile that spoke of secret, sharp things, and eyes already darkening beneath the weight of the casual, dismissive way the Hales treated all their males.

So alike and yet so different in those days, the Argents and the Hales. Chris had once thought that, had his mother still been alive, she would have wanted to take the Hale child under her wing. Feed him chicken soup and whisper words of family and loyalty and self worth, all before handing him a gun and telling him where to shoot. But his mother wasn’t still alive, and the thought was forgotten almost as soon as it was had.

It’s an honest confusion, Chris thinks. A way for Scott and Stiles and Malia - A child. Peter has a _child_ \- to explain why Peter has missed the mark on killing Chris on three separate occasions. A way for Isaac - recently returned from gallivanting around Europe with Jackson and safely back under Chris’ eye - and Kira and Lydia to justify the fact that Chris has allowed Peter to live, even when the Code - his father’s or Allison’s, it doesn’t matter - clearly calls for his slaughter. A way for all of them to frame the reality that Chris is the only person Peter deigns to let visit these days, in his 5x10 Eichen House cell. The only person Peter has uttered a word to in over six months.

It must be love, because that is the strongest thing these banded together teenagers understand. The only thing intimate enough to explain the unexplainable. He forgives them their ignorance, forgives them their side eyed glances and furrowed brows and whispered gossip. Lets it lie because despite all these children have experienced, all they have suffered, they still don’t truly understand the nature of hate, of revenge, of how tragedy and death and vendettas can tie two people together just as surely as love ever had. The intimacy of it all fits like a favorite t-shirt, worn and threadbare and just barely holding itself together at the seams. Just like they are barely holding themselves together at the seams.

“Peter.” He murmurs the word quietly, an attempt to refocus him from where he’s drifted away. He’s staring, glassy eyed, at the motes of dust swirling about in the light streaming through the single, ceiling high, postage stamp sized window. Too many drugs today, which makes for frustrating, usually fruitless conversations. But Chris has always been talented in his determination. “Peter.”

Peter swings his head back to Chris, hair grown too long and tangled and standing wild where his hands must have torn at it sometime in the night. “Did you say something?” His knee presses tight against Chris’; their chairs are scooted close as they sit face to face, Peter unbound and Chris unarmed.

Chris closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before asking again, voice betraying no impatience. “The Doctors. Do you know anything about the Doctors? Have they visited you?”

Peter’s brows draw together and he shrugs. “I’ve seen a lot of doctors.” He bats at the motes, grinning childishly as they scatter. “Deaton could have told you that.”

Chris closes his hand around Peter’s, bringing it to Peter’s thigh and trapping it there. “Deaton’s gone. Remember? And not your regular doctors. The other ones. The orderly said you were screaming about them during the night. People are dying. I need you to try to focus. I’ll talk them into letting us go outside for a walk if you can focus. The sun is bright today.”

“What do I care for people dying?” Peter’s confusion is real, as is the sly glint that slides into his eyes immediately after. “Help me focus, then.”

“You’ll care if it’s you they come for next,” he says evenly, but instead of pressing, he brings his free hand to Peter’s face and cups his palm against the rough bristle of his jaw. The slide of his thumb is slow across Peter’s bottom lip, dipping inside just enough on Peter’s small sigh that the tip gets wet. “Peter, focus.”

Peter’s hand flexes inside his and his nostrils flare wide and Chris’ breath grows hoarse in his chest. For half a second, Peter’s eyes clear, and he says, his tongue flicking against Chris’ thumb as he speaks, “Claudia knew them. They’re responsible for Parrish.”

Then it all comes crashing back down and Peter shoves him away savagely, breaking his hold and almost knocking Chris from his chair in the process.

“You promised me sun, Argent. I expect you to deliver.”

Chris Argent does not have a secret, sordid past with Peter Hale. But hate, Chris knows, is just as intimate a thing as desire. And intimate things are all too easy to confuse.

The sun is bright on both their faces as they step into the yard.


End file.
